Into The Sun
by eight percent
Summary: It's hot. It's always hot. It will always be hot. But maybe it's not all bad.


A/N After seeing the promo I watched the third series opener with a heavy heart, then wished I hadn't and couldn't bring myself to watch any more. Gutted doesn't really cover it. On the plus side, the whole thing has got me writing again though I'm not sure it's up to much. It made me feel better anyway.

And no, the characters are not mine. Neither is the show. Sadly.

Into The Sun

Detective Inspector Richard Poole brushed a clammy palm across his, equally clammy, forehead and followed the action with a small sigh. There'd been one thing he'd found intolerable from the moment he'd first set foot on the island paradise of Saint-Marie: the heat. Admittedly, he hadn't been too keen on the sand, the sea, the slower pace of life or the food either but it was the sun that had shot straight to the top of his list of reasons to go home. It wasn't just warm, it was hot; a stifling humidity that would have him reaching for his handkerchief on an almost continuous, brow-mopping, basis. He simply wasn't accustomed to such extremes; summers in England did occasionally hit high temperatures but not to this degree and certainly never all year round. To say that it had been a culture shock to find himself effectively trapped on the island would be a massive understatement. He'd spent most of his early days alternating between trying to get home and staying cool, and pretty much failing at both objectives though, to be fair, the latter had always been within his grasp.

It had been brought to his attention, several times and not always politely, that his attire, as well as his attitude, did little to help the situation he'd found himself in. Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey certainly wasn't shy about making her opinions known, especially when they concerned him. When the sun was beating down, and he was traipsing about the beach or the rainforest or anywhere that didn't have air-conditioning, and his shirt would cling to him with perspiration, he could almost admit that Camille might have a point about his rigid dress sense. But the truth was that he felt exposed without his suit and tie; his attire distinguished him from both the tourists - British or otherwise - and the islanders themselves, and gave him an air of authority that he wasn't sure he could pull off otherwise. He'd never tried to explain as much to her because he was aware of how it would make him appear and because he doubted she'd understand; Sergeant Bordey exuded authority regardless of what clothes she wore.

A smile slipped onto his mouth at the thought of Camille and he shifted a little on the bed. They hadn't got off to the best of starts but, unlike the sweltering heat, he'd soon come to like her: she was smart, had a knack with people that he'd never quite mastered despite his best attempts and she was a very good police officer. There was no denying that she was very beautiful too. She could also be so very French at times and clearly took great pleasure in teasing him as well. Camille was an alluring combination and the moment he'd realised as much he'd made a determined effort to do nothing more than like her; not only was she his Sergeant, and the rules against fraternisation were the same in Saint-Marie as they were back in the UK, the likelihood that she'd be interested in him would be infinitesimal. But he'd failed that particular objective too.

It might have been easier to not fall in love with her if she'd laughed at him instead of at his jokes; if she'd been dismissive of him and his pedantic ways rather than reaching out to, and even supporting, him; or if she'd been a terrible person instead of the kind, caring woman he'd come to know over a bottle of beer out on his porch. It hadn't helped that she had a tendency to dress in strappy tops that revealed shapely shoulders and shorts that, quite literally, lived up to their name, allowing him sight of her slender legs on an almost daily basis. If it wasn't sensible attire for a Caribbean island he would have sworn that she only dressed that way to make him even hotter under the collar.

Wiping the back of his hand across his brow this time, he sighed again. Even the night time offered little respite from the heat. He smiled once more as he recalled a morning many months ago when, having caught him in his pyjamas for the first time, Camille had told him that she slept naked. The implication was that he'd be much cooler if he followed her example but he was sure that she'd enjoyed watching his reaction to that little piece of information too and had walked off with a smile on her face. He'd been left dumbstruck at the time but now he could say with absolute certainty that sleeping naked did little to counter the heat: even with all possible doors and shutters thrown wide open, a light breeze coming in off the sea, and his bare body - a little uncomfortably - exposed to the elements, he was still hot. He'd have to tell her she'd been wrong.

Turning his head slightly to one side his eyes came to rest upon an equally naked Camille, her body pressed against his own and her eyes closed. The triumphant smile on his lips at the thought of having her admit he was right faded slightly but, as he gazed quietly at her, he conceded that it was probably for the best that he didn't mention it; she would only argue that there was another reason why he was so bloody hot and she would have a very valid point. A point that he probably shouldn't disagree with if he ever wanted to experience a repeat of this evening any time soon - and he very much wanted that. He very much wanted to spend his life with her, so much so that he'd turned his back on a very good offer of a job with the Serious Organised Crime Squad, and a life back in the UK, just to be on this island with her.

When he'd returned to Saint-Marie and discovered that his luggage had gone missing (for the second time!), that the heat felt more oppressive than ever after a few days of London drizzle and that the Commissioner had been waiting for him at the airport, looking like the cat that had wolfed down the canary along with an expensive bottle of wine, he'd started to feel apprehensive. Camille had seemed upset at the thought that he might not return to the island but that didn't mean she thought of him as anything more than a friend. Or that she ever would. His unease had mutated into a rant about his lost luggage (though it really had annoyed him; it had taken a week to be reunited with his suitcase) that had lasted all the way to Catherine's bar, much to the Commissioner's dismay. But the sight of Camille - sitting with the rest of the team, her mother hovering nearby and a banner pinned to the wall welcoming him home that he knew was all Camille's doing - and the smile on her face that was solely for him had been enough to soothe those nerves.

Acting on his feelings for her had been another matter altogether. In fact, if it had been left to him he'd still be trying to summon the courage to ask her out to dinner whilst simultaneously doubting her feelings for him (because he'd never been good at reading people, especially women; especially Camille) and worrying about the regulations that could part them should they ever start a relationship. It had been Camille who, perhaps growing tired of waiting for him to do so, had taken the initiative and demanded to be rewarded for taking such good care of his lizard. Both thrilled and terrified by the prospect, and still not entirely convinced of her feelings for him, he'd offered to cook something for her if she came over to his place. It hadn't been some grand plan on his part to try and seduce her - neither his cooking nor his charm were that good - he'd just wanted them both far away from the prying eyes of the island and her all to himself. It turned out, however, that Camille had fully intended on seducing him tonight - not that he'd put up much resistance. Sometimes, he mused as he adjusted his position again, it was best not to disagree with her.

She stirred slightly in response to his movements, her body shifting against his own and her hand drifting further across his chest, as if she was trying to get even closer to him. He wasn't sure that there was any space left between them but he held his breath until she stilled again and then let his free hand come to rest on her wrist; his other hand maintained its position, sitting contentedly across her hip, and though the thought of round three had his blood making its way south he wanted to enjoy this moment just a little longer. Their first time together had been a rush of mouths and hands and clothing hastily pushed aside; he couldn't remember wanting anything as much he'd wanted Camille in that moment and she had made it very clear that not only did she feel exactly the same way as him but that she wanted him to show her just how much he wanted her too. Their second time had been more leisurely, though no less passionate, but he'd been intent on discovering exactly what she liked in the hopes that - if this wasn't all some heat-induced dream - he would have more than one night with her.

He let his gaze wander slowly down her body, taking advantage of both the fading light and the opportunity to admire every curve, every stretch of smooth skin, and commit it all to memory. His gaze had just settled on the leg that was slung across one of his own when her voice, tinged with sleepiness and the evening's activities, disrupted both his thoughts and his perusal of her: "Are you ogling me?"

Eyes jumping immediately back up her body he found her gaze resting accusingly on him but there was a smile on her lips. She was teasing him again. Once he'd realised that it was done without malice, and that it would always bring that beautiful smile to her lips, he'd actually come to enjoy it - though obviously not as much as she did. "Yes," he replied honestly. There seemed no point in denying it; she was naked and in his bed - what else could he, other than the obvious that is and that was certainly on his mind, possibly want to do?

Camille's smile grew wider at his answer and her fingertips began to trace small circles on his chest. "You're not sleepy?"

There seemed to be a hint of something in her question and he took it, at first, to be surprise. He bristled a little at the implication that he was too old, and possibly too out of shape, for her, and for the kind of activities they had engaged in, but managed to stop himself from taking it further; the way her fingers were grazing across the hair on his chest suggested that her enquiry was for a different reason altogether. "I'm too hot to sleep," he replied, reassessing his earlier conclusion about sleeping naked now that she seemed less likely to storm out of bed and not speak to him for a week. In all honesty, it was the temperature they'd created together that had left him hot and bothered but maybe he could tease her, just a little, for a change. "I seem to remember you telling me that sleeping naked would be better."

For a moment he regretted his bravado as her eyes narrowed at him and her fingers came to a sudden stop. "Did I?" Camille said slowly. She stared at him for a beat before adding on with a smile, "Well, I was right: this is better, isn't it?" To emphasise the point her hand, palm and fingers flat and hot against his skin, slipped from his light grasp and started to roam down his body.

She had him there and in more ways than one; he made a mental note never to try and tease her again as he managed to utter in response, and it wasn't the heat that was currently melting his brain, an exceedingly truthful: "Yes."


End file.
